


Martha, My Drear

by FflewddurFflambuoyant



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Gen, Monster Hunters, Monsters, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FflewddurFflambuoyant/pseuds/FflewddurFflambuoyant
Summary: Martha Crestein has always understood that monsters are just supernatural prey, that even a creature from the blackest lagoon is little more than a really tough, ungodly rare beast. So . . . why is this one making surprisingly sassy comments?Olivier, a Deep One/human hybrid, has implored Martha (along with her much nicer friend, name o' Carter) to help him make it to Miskatonic University unharmed. The fish-man wants to find someone there, someone very important to him; meanwhile, Carter wants to prove to the world that the Deep Ones aren't universally hostile towards humans, and Martha just wants a head with gills to hang on her wall.However, one thing that throws a wrench into all of this is: in a world where eldritch abominations lurk beneath the folds of modernity, the more pressing threat is, and always has been, the lower life form monsters that Martha hunts on a daily basis. Only, now, there's someone she has to make sure she doesn't shoot in the process.
Kudos: 1





	Martha, My Drear

“This’d better be important, Carter. I gotta out-do the Gypsy by evenfall.” Martha Crestein carried herself the way she carried her gun: lazily enough, but never too far from blowing up in someone’s face.

She could be downright scary at times; she didn’t call herself ‘the Mawth Woman’ for no reason. Nor did she simply call herself that because her Poughkeepsie-trying-to be-Brooklyn accent got in the way. Oh, no; she’d swoop down on you, like a cormorant. She could be fiercer than any of the twenty six Moth Men she’d bagged in her life, put together.

Of course, the fact that she was walking into a darkened room might’ve made her a little more cross than she normally was. Either that, or it was due to the fact that Dylan Carter, her old suite mate from the Academy, was being so coy.

“Mind if I wrangle a vial of promethium powder out of my purse to light the way?” she asked, but he insisted there was a surprise in store for her.

“Trust me, Martha,” Dylan said, closing the door behind her, “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time. Least, not while you got that safari shooter with ya.”

The ‘safari shooter’ in question was Martha’s fully-loaded elephant gun. It was a fine piece of pre-packaged marksmanship: for someone like Martha Crestein, that is. And, had it not been for the room’s natural, ecliptical mustiness, she might’ve leveled it at the base of Carter’s spine. Her way of saying, ‘get on with it.’

“Wait right there, please,” Dylan instructed (although it sounded more like a request), as he disappeared further into the shadows. Maybe a half a minute later - alternatively, about twenty three seconds of foot-tapping for Martha - the lights came on, and the New Bedford apartment came to life.

The furnishings were like as to make Martha nostalgic, and the bay view that cowered behind the curtains couldn’t have been more intoxicating. That is, if the curtains hadn’t been drawn, and if the furnishings had been bathed in a calmer, more natural light.

Instead, the windows were intentionally opaque, the room was smothered in a gaudy, unsuitable glow, and seated in the rocking chair by the hearth was a gill-man, wearing a vest and reading a copy of Wolfshead.

If Martha’s face had been a mask of teeth-grinding impatience, then that mask fell away. In its place, there was a brow packed with the joviality of a former suite mate, and the ecstasy of a huntress.

The gill-man looked up from his book, and Martha looked over at Carter. “Carter, you son of a Stygian bear-dancer,” she chuckled, smiling like an idiot. “This is great, this is wonderful. I always knew lettin’ you copy off my notes at the Academy’d pay off one day. I just . . . never imagined it’d pay off like this.”

A look of restless reassurance swooped over Dylan’s face. What’s more, if Martha didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn that the man shared that look with the gill-man, whose smile had gone from warm to troubled. The best that Martha could chalk it up, her ol’ friend simply wasn’t turned on by the briny cologne of the gill-man (who, likewise, wasn’t turned on by the eminent cologne of death).

Anyway, it didn’t matter; if Carter didn’t fancy the spoor of something exotic, like a gill-man, then he could sit back while she did all the field dressing. No biggie. She had to thank him so much for leading her to this game, that she could put up with his infantile squeamishness for the day. Course, it was odd he’d be so squeamish, after vivisecting monsters for a straight semester at the Academy, but still.

Adjusting her purse, Martha raised the elephant gun, getting the gill-man square in her sights. “I can’t thank you enough, Carter. If you like, I’ll acknowledge you on the back o’ this one’s placard. Otherwise, might wanna step out while I handle the fun part.” By now, the gill-man was wide-eyed, and Carter was leaping in between the two.

“Hold up, hold up, hold up!” Carter cried, sticking his arms and hands out. “No! No, no, no, that is not what I brought you here for at, all!”

“Dude, I thought you said she’d be cool!” the gill-man said, trading his book for the armrests of his chair.

. . . Now, that was a surprise. “Wait. The gill-man . . . can talk?” Martha said, only barely lowering her gun.

“He’s not a gill-man, Martha,” Carter explained. “He’s a Deep One. He’s sentient.”

“Sapient, actually, but who likes a pedant? I sure don’t.” The gi- . . . Deep One’s grin had regressed somewhat to its former joviality. Nevertheless, a certain . . . uncertain twang terrorized the corners of his mouth, and the voice that came out of that mouth, though friendly, had an unmistakable shake to it.

Which was fine: let the Darwin-insulting gill-man be nervous; it gave Martha enough time to recover. “Well . . . ain’t this an outlier.” Once again, she lifted the elephant gun. “I think I’ll just mortally wound the creature, then. That way, we can record its dying words for posterity. Not often you come across a marvel like this. Dylan, you might wanna get out of the way and get your camera ready.”

“Martha,” Carter insisted, “I didn’t shelter this creature just so you could shoot him and hang him on the wall.”

“And, besides,” the Deep One contributed, “I am by no means photogenic; I’d look terrible on your wall.” He was etching as much levity into the comment as he could, but Martha wasn’t having any of it. She simply had her mind dead-set.

“Dylan, I’m giving you to the count of Dracula to get out of my way and let me bag this beast. A class 13 monster only comes along once or twice in a hunter’s lifetime, and I don’t aim to squander this, just because you’re amused that it can talk.”

“Martha, please,” Carter said, taking a timid step closer to her, “just . . . hear me out.”

“This is the first of your last chances, Carter: Lord Ruthven.”

“I didn’t give this poor creature my word to protect him, just so that I could let you shoot him like a fish in a barrel!” Carter protested.

“In that case,” said Martha, “you’re a nobler man than I.”

“But,” Carter said, squinting in confusion, “I am a man than you.”

Ignoring him, the Mawth Woman continued counting. “Sir Francis Varney,” she said, plainly but firmly.

“Martha, I’m serious, this poor creature came to me for help, and I made a solemn oath to him that you’d back me and him up. You see, we need to get him to th- . . .”

“Don’t I get to explain anything about myself?” said the Deep One.

“Lady Carmilla,” said Martha, by way of her, shall we say, unorthodox countdown.

“Dammit, Martha! Can you quit being a huntress for two goddamn minutes?” Carter exclaimed, waving his arms an exasperated bit. “Just two minutes, while I explain things?”

“Or we explains things,” the Deep One muttered, “whichever’s more convenient for everyone.” As he spoke, the Deep One subtly shifted himself, so that he was mostly just presenting his side. Dylan’s torso wasn’t exactly the broadest, and a shield becomes practically useless if it’s too narrow.

As for Martha, she simply stood her ground, that scowl of hers returning. “. . . If you can come up with another vampire between Carmilla and Dracula, Carter, I’ll give you one last chance. Whatta ya say to that?”

“I’d say Boris Liatoukine,” came a fourth voice. “Everyone always forgets that one.”

Martha Crestein whirled around, like an arming sword being treated like a spinning top. “God damn it, Gyps, we agreed to cover separate ground during our hunts!”

“Dylan called me,” the Gypsy said mildly, standing inside the doorway. For as silent as she’d been opening that door, her appearance compensated for it by being rather loud.

Unlike Martha with her long, wavy black locks, the Gypsy kept her lapis lazuli hair braided beneath a headscarf. Unlike Martha’s plain shorts, or Dylan’s punny t-shirt, the Gypsy sported a skirt that was somewhere between art deco and, well, Romani, and she topped it off with a blouse that was probably taken from somebody’s grave.

To boot, she always seemed to come to a stop in some pseudo-fancy contortion, as she did presently at the edge of the doorway. Martha despised the ease and bravado with which the Gypsy carried herself. However, right now, Martha was all the more pissed that a fellow huntress was daring to trespass on her hunting grounds.

All the same, the Gypsy ensured that this open hostility remained unrequited. “So,” she said, finally walking the final steps into the room, “whatcha got there, Mawth Woman? Something about a . . . gill-man, if my ears didn’t deceive me?” Using her modestly high heel, she kicked the door closed, before resting a hand on her hip. “Or was Dylan exaggerating?” So saying, she craned her neck, in order to see past her and Martha’s former suite mate; she answered her own question. “No, it looks like he didn’t.” For a moment, there was silence, and then, “Well, if that’s so, I hope you weren’t planning on keeping the specimen for yourself, Martha dear: the Academy has strict rules about hunting class 12 and up monsters. If you’ve caught one, you’re supposed to bring it to Facility Extraordinaire, so that they can keep it in isolation and study it, seeing as how they’re so rare. But, of course, you know that. Yes, to make a vain carcass out of something like a gill-man would be tantamount to making an aperitif chowder out of, oh, I don’t know, a baby dolphin.”

“You ever tried baby dolphin chowder, Gyps? Little bit o’ worcestershire and celery salt, and it’s like nothin’ out o’ this world.”

“I mean it, Martha,” the Gypsy said, suddenly so terse. “You have no right to slay that monster for your own pleasure.”

Before she responded, Martha let out a patient sigh. “How d’ya know I wasn’t fixin’ to sell this bad boy to a taxidermist? Same as I’d do with a dead rake, for instance?” she said, leaning on her weapon the way a tenant farmer leans on a hoe.

The Gypsy let out an equally patient sigh. “Same way I know that monster hunting licenses can be revoked, if sufficient evidence is accrued as to a hunter’s misdeeds.”

So saying, she reached a hand up under her headscarf and, pulling her fingers back out, materialized a copy of the Academy’s handbook. Flipping through it, the Gypsy landed on a page that was visibly frontal of the book’s contents.

“‘Section 1.2 - Upperclass Supernaturals. Rule Thirty: No monster hunter or huntress is permitted to track down and kill creatures that fall into the upper two brackets of conflict and rarity, at least not for their own personal gain. Such creatures, if detained, are to be brought immediately to the nearest Academy-affiliated establishment.’ Which, in our case, is the Facility Extraordinaire.” Now that Exhibit A was submitted into evidence, the Gypsy closed the handbook, placed it mysteriously inside her cleavage, returned her left hand to her hip, and then stood there with her right hand still in her left cup.

“Gyps,” Martha said staunchly, “I know monster hunters from the same school aren’t supposed to cross bullets, but I swear, if you get between me and my prey, I will drop you, paint your face white, hoist you onto my bannister, and tell house guests you’re a laestrygonian.”

“Oh, please,” the Gypsy snorted, “like you’d ever have house guests. Dylan and I are the only ones who’ve been to your place who you haven’t maimed, and that’s only because we haven’t swiped your snickerdoodles yet.”

Strangely enough, that cut deep, deeper than a bugaboo’s talons. “. . . Gyps . . . go fuck yourself. With a spiked dildo. Go fuck yourself with a spiked dildo lubricated in battery acid. Go fuck yourself, with a spiked dildo lubricated in battery acid, after takin’ it up the ass from an aurochs. Go fuck yourself, with a spiked dildo, lubricated in battery acid, after takin’ it up the ass from an aurochs, while giving a rabid Night Mare fallacio! GO FU- !!!” After that, it was pearl handles blazing.

Martha had her elephant gun aimed in a heartbeat (a heartbeat she was hoping would pass soon and let her shoot), and the Gypsy wrenched her right hand out of her bra, this time holding a Savage 1907 instead of a tome. However, before either party could unleash their lead, Carter leapt in between them, his arms buying him more space than he normally could afford.

“Ladies, please!” he cried. “I’ve been saying from the start, we should just . . .”

“Hey, now,” the Deep One interjected, “don’t start a row over me.” He might’ve said something else. But, if he did, the Gypsy was sure as hell too stunned to hear any of it.

“Wait,” she finally said. “The gill-man . . . can talk?”

Hearing this, the Deep One rolled his eyes. “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss; am I right, DC?”

“He’s a Deep One, Gyps,” Carter explained, “not some insentient gill-man.”

“He ain’t neither,” the Mawth Woman objected, still keeping the end of her barrel over the Gypsy’s heart (despite the fact that the latter had lowered her pistol unconsciously). “He’s a future ornament, probably gonna go above and behind my head at the dinner table.”

“But, but that can’t be,” the Gypsy said, genuinely floored. “We blew them up. The Deep Ones: we blew them all to smithereens. Decades ago.”


End file.
